


You Made Me Drink Poison

by elithewho



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Light Bondage, Marathon Sex, Masturbation, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 00:34:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16943664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elithewho/pseuds/elithewho
Summary: The Department of Magical Flora has become aware of a very serious outbreak ofHerba Fornicatioin the Lower East Side of Manhattan, New York.Herba Fornicatiois not native to the United States and the outbreak is believed to be deliberate. The pollen ofHerba Fornicatiois potent and potentially toxic to wizard and no-maj alike, and respondents are urged to be cautious. While brief direct contact alone is not believed to be dangerous, inhalation, ingestion, and prolonged direct contact can lead to very serious side effects.Side effects may include: fever, delirium, extreme sexual arousal, priapism, lewd verbal outbursts, groping of self and/or others, public masturbation, hysterical laughter, crying, spontaneous ejaculation. Any or all of the above may manifest in the affected subject with minimal delay following exposure.





	You Made Me Drink Poison

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place pre-movie I guess. Wait, second Fantastic Beasts movie? Never heard of it.
> 
> Thanks to Morgan for the beta as always <3 she believes in me so I don't believe in myself.

_TO: Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

_FROM: Hoster Dufresne, Department of Magical Flora_

_DATE: July 14, 1925_

_SUBJECT: Herba Fornicatio Outbreak in LES_

__

***URGENT MEMORANDUM*** 

_The Department of Magical Flora has become aware of a very serious outbreak of Herba Fornicatio in the Lower East Side of Manhattan, New York. Herba Fornicatio is not native to the United States and the outbreak is believed to be deliberate. The pollen of Herba Fornicatio is potent and potentially toxic to wizard and no-maj alike, and respondents are urged to be cautious. While brief direct contact alone is not believed to be dangerous, inhalation, ingestion, and prolonged direct contact can lead to very serious side effects._

__

_Side effects may include: fever, delirium, extreme sexual arousal, priapism, lewd verbal outbursts, groping of self and/or others, public masturbation, hysterical laughter, crying, spontaneous ejaculation. Any or all of the above may manifest in the affected subject with minimal delay following exposure._

_Due to a possible breach of Rappaport’s Law, a defensive response has been proposed and approved by the President of The Magical Congress of the United States, Seraphina Picquery..._

 

In Graves’s opinion, he was not given nearly enough time to assemble a proper task force. Standing in the sweltering heat on Grand Street where it crossed Orchard, he watched as the gang of rogue botanists were rounded up and apparated back to MACUSA, their departure the only breeze in the muggy neighborhood. Yet more masked aurors were obliviating confused no-majes in groups while civilians that had potentially been exposed to the dangerous pollen were examined by healers. 

It would appear that Picquery thought Graves would be able to pull this raid off without a hitch despite very little prior warning. Yes, he did in fact do that, but he couldn’t help but feel like this was setting an unfair precedent. 

Night had already arrived and Graves was feeling an intense itch under his skin that he associated with a successful raid and the apprehension of criminals. He checked in on his team, confirmed that they could handle the rest of the booking and transport of the apprehended wizards, and then apparated home. 

He poured himself a drink or two, still feeling strange and restless. Heat crawled over his skin and he blamed the balmy night air permeating his apartment. It felt prudent to turn in early. 

Graves woke with a dull pounding in his temples. His throat was burning, dry enough to use as a pumice stone, his terrible thirst a hold-over from the dreams he'd had all night. By the time he’d gotten ready, groomed and outfitted and ready to depart, the lingering feeling from the dreams had intensified. There was an itch deep under his skin. His palms sweated, heat seemed to swell in his blood. There was something like a fog hanging over his vision and he kept shaking his head as though that would clear it away. 

And he was supposed to be such a smart man. 

It didn’t really become apparent to him that something might be wrong until after he arrived at work. It was another hot, stifling day, just like yesterday, but inside MACUSA it was blissfully cool and comfortable. Still, this did not stop the female members of staff from wearing short sleeves and thin summery materials that clung to their figures in distracting ways. Graves found his gaze pulled to their bare ankles and collarbones as though magically summoned. 

He sat in his office, ostensibly finishing up the paperwork related to the Grand Street raid, but his quill hung in the air above the parchment, quivering as though in confusion. Drips of ink blotted the blank report, but he barely noticed. The raid, the report – those thoughts kept fleeing his mind like a murmuration of frightened starlings. They were readily replaced by thoughts of Miss Nilsson, one of the piano teachers of his youth. 

Miss Nilsson had been very tall and very buxom and Graves had been _very_ 13-years-old. She was stern and Swedish, thick blonde curls falling in rigid corkscrews as she pressed a hand to the small of his back, barking at him to focus. Even in the constricting corsets of the day, her bosom had shaken and swelled whenever she played a piece for him to copy. Graves had been unable to stop himself from looking; shamefully, hotly, painfully looking. Cock hard, palms slick with sweat, mouth dry. Her bare wrist brushed his hand and he nearly choked. He learned so little from Miss Nilsson that she was eventually fired and he got a new piano tutor, a fat balding man with a lisp. Graves had played like a savant under his tutelage. 

Graves had no idea what had brought this on. He hadn’t thought of Miss Nilsson in decades. But his cock hardened at the memory as though he had just sat beside her on the bench, swathed in her honeysuckle perfume. He stared down at his lap, betrayed by his own body. 

Well, he must have come in contact with the _Herba Fornicatio_ pollen. That was plain enough. Why it hadn’t occurred to him until just that moment, he couldn’t say. Perhaps he was simply used to pushing down those thoughts and feelings. Ignoring them was second nature. 

He felt ill. Like the other aurors, he'd taken precautions. Granted, he hadn't worn a mask like those aurors on the front lines; he'd thought distance would suffice. There hadn't been any wind at all to blow the pollen around, but apparently keeping Grand Street between himself and the raid hadn't been enough. Worse yet, there was no known cure for exposure, so even if he turned himself into the healers at the infirmary it would just be a waiting game until the effects abated. 

It wasn’t known to be fatal, merely socially disruptive to the extreme. He could probably deal with it on his own. Why suffer the humiliation of an examination if he didn’t have to? 

By midday, Graves was beginning to suspect that this was a very foolish path to take. Although blessedly sequestered behind his desk where no one could notice the huge bulge in his pants, Graves was completely unable to focus. Somehow he had never noticed how very many people came into his office in a single day. They had packages to drop off, paperwork to collect or turn in, questions to ask him. Graves was increasingly snappish and hostile to every new interruption. 

“Sir, are you OK? Do you have the flu?” one of his junior aurors nervously asked, looking slightly alarmed after he'd snapped over some minor protocol question. 

Graves was certainly not OK. Sweat beaded his forehead and his fist clenched tightly around the scroll of parchment the young man had just dropped off. He turned his eyes onto the young auror, staring hotly at the slick, trembling curve of his lower lip, the flick of his pink tongue as he wetted it again, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. 

“Sir?” he repeated squeakily, fidgeting. 

Graves could have commanded the kid to fall to his knees and he probably would have done. Graves could have so easily pushed his straining cock past those succulent lips into the hot cave of his eager mouth... 

“You can go,” he finally bit out. The young man couldn’t have turned tail fast enough. 

Alone again, Graves dropped his head into a shaking hand. Besides the physical discomfort, the indignity was almost too much to bear. A hand fell into his lap as if by its own accord. He let out a low, sharp hiss as he cupped his throbbing erection through his trousers, giving it a tremulous squeeze. He had never before done something so lewd and out of order while at work. His mind swirled, calling up images of the junior auror and his soft, wet mouth. The witches in the typing pool with their slender legs and that alluring stripe of stitching up the back of their silk stockings, trailing up their thighs and disappearing into their skirts. Miss Nilsson and her incredible breasts. Zelda St James... 

Zelda had been an auror for three years by the time he joined MACUSA. Young, green, ambitious and ridiculously headstrong, Graves had been determined to make a name for himself the moment he stepped into the Woolworth Building to accept his first position. Zelda was older, more experienced and probably took pity on the fierce young kid so thirsty for praise. She took him under her wing, helped him out. 

One evening while toiling over an excruciatingly difficult potion she was teaching him to brew, Zelda had taken his hand and unbuttoned her shirtwaist at the same time. Graves had merely stared at her, wide-eyed and alarmed. He’d never slept with a witch before. Zelda had the blackest hair and a deep olive complexion, and had it been the present day she would have worn trousers and cut her hair into a severe bob. Instead, she merely unhooked the stubborn little eyes of her s-bend corset and pushed him down onto the couch in her office to straddle him. She’d taken his hands to press them to her small, firm breasts and groped for his hardening cock through his trousers. The next few minutes had been all a blur: Zelda’s hair falling loose from her messy bun, curling down her neck as she perspired; their too-brief rocking. How he gasped like a drowning fish and then ejaculated; Zelda laughing behind her hand before fixing her brows into a sympathetic expression. Graves could only pant, sweating and longing for the sweet release of death. 

Zelda had taken him to bed a few more times and then died in the Great War. He could remember her vividly now, the smell of sage and woodsmoke clinging to her hands as she touched his face, slipping her thumb into his mouth while the potion bubbled off to the side. 

Back in his office, Graves had his cock out, firmly stroking it as every even slightly sexual encounter he’d ever had boiled up to the surface of his mind. From Zelda taking his virginity to his underlings bringing him packages to the blonde coffee witch brushing the back of his hand with hers as she handed him a steaming cup that morning. His prick was outrageously sensitive, burning as he palmed it. He swallowed down a choking moan, biting his lip hard enough to bleed. 

There was a clang as the doorknob jiggled. Graves immediately hunched over, stuffing his leaking cock back into his pants so quickly that he felt a sharp pain, dread burning an icy path through his gut, fear shooting up his spine because _he’d forgotten to lock the door._

He only had time to hunch over his desk, pants still unbuttoned, palms flat on his desk in what he hoped was an innocent-looking position. It was the blonde coffee witch. 

“Coffee?” she said brightly and quite unnecessarily as she indicated the trolley of coffees that rolled in behind her. 

“No, thank you,” Graves managed to mutter, so softly that he barely heard it himself. 

He reached into his waistcoat for his handkerchief to dab at his damp forehead. She was still lingering at the door. There was a tiny crease between her brows and her cheeks seemed to be tinted pink. Pink cheeks, pink lips, the curve of her breasts under pink silk, the delicate swell of her hips. He imagined falling to his knees and kissing her all over, starting with those delicate ankles, moving up... Mercy Lewis, he was deranged. He needed to remove himself from polite society. Or at least the workplace. 

“Mr. Graves,” she ventured and he could have screamed. “You look a tiny bit, I dunno –” 

“Leave,” he breathed out through clenched teeth and when she stayed quite still, “Leave! Please – just – Miss uh –” 

“Goldstein,” she provided helpfully, but Graves thought his teeth might crack from how hard he bit down. 

“Miss Goldstein, I command you to leave at once.” 

At first she did not look inclined to obey him, but perhaps she saw something terrifying in his expression. Not that she looked terrified as she finally backed out the door. She looked worried. Concerned. But surely only for her own well-being. 

The door clicked closed and Graves scrambled for parchment and quill. He had just finished drafting a note to his secretary of his intent to go home and to rearrange his schedule for the remainder of the day when a head appeared in his fire. The president’s personal secretary. 

“Madam Picquery needs you in her office pronto, Mr. Graves!” the head exclaimed and Graves nearly cried. 

Instead, he gave an affirmative reply while crumpling his desperate retreat attempt in one fist. He took five minutes to try and compose himself, wiping the sweat off his brow, combing his hair, arranging the bulge in his pants so it was slightly less obvious. Then he went to face the president. 

“Madam President,” he said courteously but she barely acknowledged him. 

“We have our first fatality from _Herba Fornicatio_ exposure,” she said without preamble. “I wanted to inform you right away.” 

“Oh, really?” he replied faintly, feeling suddenly even more feverish. 

“Yes, it seems a heart attack from – are you OK?” She'd finally looked squarely at him, taking in his flushed and damp face. 

“Yes,” he said automatically but then, “No, actually. I think I'm coming down with something.” 

“Do you need a healer? I can –” 

“No, it’s fine. I’m fine. I just need a day or two –” he faltered. Picquery was tapping her quill on her desk, looking irritated. 

“It puts us in a tight spot, being without our Director of Magical Security.” 

“I understand that,” he said softly, reaching into his waistcoat to retrieve his now soaking handkerchief to dab pointlessly at his forehead. 

He glanced up at her, at her face with its piteous concern. At the full, lush curve of her lips, the vaguely masculine starched collar of her suit giving her such an aura of arousing authority. He imagined her fisting his hair in one hand while he licked up her thighs to the sweet apex and... Graves tore his eyes away with effort. 

“Maybe you should take some time for yourself,” she said with resignation. “You don’t look well.” 

“Apologies, Ma'am,” he breathed, backing away slowly towards the door. “Please keep me abreast – uh – _informed_ of any new developments.” 

He turned on his heel and scampered like a scared rabbit. He needed to be sequestered away from everyone, magical and not, until the effects passed. It did nothing for his anxiety to learn of a fatality, however. A heart attack. Well, Graves was extremely fit. Ticker in excellent condition per his latest physical; he would probably be fine. He probably should have inquired more about this fatality, like the state of the man’s heart before it stopped beating, but he couldn’t go back now. 

He made it to the apparition spot in the lobby without molesting a single underling, though he felt as if a million eyes were on him. And his eyes were on a million people. Everyone he encountered exuded an enticing sexual promise. He nearly splinched himself in his hurry to apparate home. 

Thankfully, he lived alone. Now he could barricade himself away from all human contact. Something he’d been trying to do for years, if he were perfectly honest. 

He caught sight of himself in his full-length mirror and shuddered in horror. He was a disaster: hair and clothes disheveled, face bright red, lips bitten to a swollen mess. Sweating under his many layers, Graves stripped off his clothes, leaving them in a pile. But being naked left him feeling too exposed, his bare cock bobbing obscenely, hard and leaking. With shaking hands, he pulled on a thin white undershirt and a pair of his silken sleep pants. Another mistake. The cotton dragged against his nipples; his cock brushed constantly against smooth silk, a maddening tease on overheated skin. Groaning in despair, Graves crawled onto his perfectly made bed, hand pushing into his pants as if of its own accord. 

The first stroke pulled a strangled moan from his lips. It was bliss, and agony. He bit his fist and tasted blood. It did not take long to reach completion, making a sticky mess in his sleep pants as his hips snapped up to fuck his fist. But the arousal could not be banished so easily. His cock remained stubbornly hard and he couldn’t stop himself from stroking it. Hard or soft, slow or frenzied, nothing brought relief. Tears welled in his eyes from the overstimulation, the overwhelming sensitivity and the urge that would not dissipate. 

There was nothing else to be done. Panting, worn out, Graves crossed his wrists above his head and tried to focus on completing the wandless spell. In his distracted state, it took a few tries. But finally, thin ropes snaked around his wrists, binding them together and then firmly to the ornate headboard. Now it would be impossible to touch himself. 

What felt like some hours later, he considered blurrily how very stupid he was. His cock was in agony, his wrists burned as they twisted against ropes that cut into his skin. His heart pounded; he was bathed in sweat, delirious and confused. Surely he would expire soon. The possibility did not sound so bad. 

“Mr. Graves?” 

The voice trailed over him like a silken shawl dragging across sensitive skin. He thought he must have been imagining it. He cracked an eye open and saw a pale pink blur. 

“Oh dear, Mr. Graves,” the voice continued and Graves shook his head, trying to clear the gossamer veil from his vision. 

She came into focus quite unexpectedly, the blonde coffee witch in her peachy pink dress. She should not have been there. Graves jerked feebly against his bindings, hissing in pain. 

“I’m sorry, I'm sorry,” she said in a rush. “I was so worried. I heard about that fella dying from exposure to the pollen and I thought –” 

He tried to respond, but his throat was too dry. He could only moan brokenly. 

“Oh honey,” she cooed, sitting beside him. 

With a muttered spell, she summoned a glass of water and pressed it to his lips. In his rush to gulp it down, at least half spilled down his front. Her closeness pained him. He could smell her perfume, vanilla and lavender and apple blossom. The neckline of her dress begged to be peeled back, to reveal the sweetness of soft skin beneath. 

“I think it’s the only way,” she said, nodding as if in agreement. White hands fluttered at the front of her dress, tugging buttons free. 

“No!” Graves gasped, alarmed. His cock seemed to twitch in excitement. 

She stopped, shoulders tense. “It’s OK,” she said. “I want to help.” 

“Miss –” he groaned haltingly. “Miss Goldstein. It wouldn’t be –” 

“I want to,” she insisted, as if he had spoken his objection out loud. “Please call me Queenie.” 

And then her dressed was gone as if by magic. Only in an ivory silk slip, elaborately decorated with lace and ribbons, and her stockings, Queenie straddled him and he grunted, hips bucking up against her. 

“No need for these,” she muttered, using her wand to sever the ropes holding his wrists to the headboard. 

His hands, at last free, immediately went to her hips. He trembled, overcome by the feel of her soft, feminine curves. He pulled up the fragile silk, revealing the tops of her stockings and garter belt. He whined. 

“Shhh,” she cooed sweetly, tugging down his sleep pants, gone sticky and damp with his emissions. He was too far gone for proper shame, but a twinge of humiliation burned him all the same. “It’s OK, honey.” 

The endearment was syrupy sweet to his ears. And then he was thrusting up into molten heat, the clutch of her body so welcome after so long in agony that he howled, squeezing her hips, distantly registering her own sharp gasp. He thrust once, twice, and then came hard enough to cause bright white stars to explode in his vision. 

But as before, his cock remained hard, sore. Dizzy from the force of his orgasm, he could only lay there, gripping her hips as she rocked above him. It was like Zelda St James all over again, something beyond words; he could only ride the waves of feeling crashing down around him like crescendos. 

“Oh, Mr. Graves,” Queenie moaned, and he pulled out of his mind a bit, looking up at her undulating above him. She looked like a goddess, gold and peach, her slip sweat-soaked and sticking to her skin. 

He felt a surge of adrenaline and sat up, flipping them both over with a firm jostle that dislodged his cock from inside her. Queenie yelped in surprise and then giggled, punctuated by a moan as he sheathed himself back inside. Her cunt was the epitome of bliss; he wanted to die inside her. Desperate, he tugged at the damp silk that hid the expanse of her body from him until Queenie helped him pull it over her head and toss it aside. 

Whipped cream breasts, candy pink nipples – he wanted to devour her. Thrusting in a deep and steady rhythm, he kissed every inch of her he could reach. She tasted of salted caramel, sugary and tangy and divine. He reached between them, felt for where they were joined and the slick, wet mess they had created there. As he rubbed her clit with a thumb while he fucked her, her moans rose up like a holy chant around him. She clenched around him, head thrown back against the pillows, and he came with her, thrusts all out of rhythm as he faltered, eyes crossing in pleasure. 

They ended up curled around each other like two worn-out wrestlers, twisted together. Graves was hunched over her, only able to rock feebly into her, face buried in her hair. It felt like hours had gone by. 

“Oh honey,” she whispered, voice tingling in his ear. “It’s OK. Everything is OK.” She weakly rubbed his sweat-slick back. 

There was a sense of impending completion as his body clenched up one more time; this orgasm seemed to drain something from his body. He groaned feebly, shuddered, and then laid still. He felt a profound emptiness, but it was not an unwelcome feeling. Queenie, still warm and solid beneath him, gave his side a little tap. 

“Sweetie?” she muttered, stroking his ribs. 

Graves could only grunt in response. His cock, finally, blessedly soft, slipped out. It took their combined effort to roll him over, whereupon he stretched out with all the satisfaction of a lion that had devoured an entire elephant. He tried to say something, tried to keep his eyes open, but he was so deeply tired that unconsciousness stole swiftly over him. Above him, he could hear Queenie mumble something as she pulled a blanket over his supine body, but then there was only blackness. 

 

He woke with a familiar pounding headache. Confused and disoriented, Graves struggled to sit up, rubbing the gritty sleep away from his eyes. Slowly, the horror of his situation dawned on him. The pungent stink of sex consumed him. Had he really just fucked the coffee witch silly? Had he really – 

She appeared as though his thoughts had summoned her. She didn’t look as though he’d just fucked her silly. She was back in her pink dress, looking clean and neat, bouncy blonde curls perfectly styled. 

“Hey there, sleepyhead!” she chirped. “Feeling better?” 

“I feel –” he mumbled and then choked. _“Mercy Lewis.”_

“Oh, don’t be embarrassed,” she said, all of her cheerfulness intact. “You had a- a- a thingy.” 

“Thingy?” he grumbled. 

“Ya know, an illness. You couldn’t help it.” 

Graves could only blink dimly at her, feeling weak, hungover and wracked with shame. 

“There, there, sweetie,” she said with a soft smile. “Don’t feel bad.” She bore a tray on which a steaming bowl of porridge sat. “Eat up,” she commanded gently. “You must be famished.” 

He was, but shame turned his stomach sour. 

“Or how about I draw you a bath,” she said, pulling back the tray and changing course at the speed of sound. “Get you out of… there.” 

In the tub of hot, sudsy water Queenie had summoned for him, Graves felt marginally better. His cock, at least, was behaving, and the stink of the marathon sex he had engaged in had washed away. But his mind could not stop replaying every moment of the day before. He had been without shame or hesitation, indulging in every wild sexual impulse with... with Queenie’s enthusiastic participation. No blur there: he could vividly recall her screaming his name as the bed shook and slammed against the wall, and she hadn’t been screaming for him to stop. He felt his face redden in the privacy of the bathroom. As he sank further down into the froth of thick bubbles, he felt a gentle push on his mind, like something knocking to get in. 

Frowning, Graves got out of the tub and dried himself, summoning a fresh set of clothes. That certainly explained how Queenie had found him and knew what he had needed, at least. 

Once he was properly presentable, he ventured out into his apartment. He found Queenie in the bedroom, humming to herself as she spelled his duvet to lay flat on his remade bed, no longer smelling of stale sex but of crisp citrus and bergamot. 

“You’re a legilimens,” he said plainly and Queenie only gave him a coy smile. 

“You could tell?” she replied. 

Graves fidgeted with his cuffs. “I suppose,” he muttered, face flushing, “I suppose I should thank you. For coming to my aid.” 

The gentle look Queenie gave him was more compelling than any set of bare ankles or garters. “I got so worried when I heard about that man dying,” she said, taking his hand in her soft palm. “And you were too proud to ask for anyone’s help.” 

Brows knit together, Graves struggled to think about what to say in response. Worried? About him? 

“Besides, I couldn’t possibly be against several hours of amazing sex. What am I, crazy?” 

He coughed and Queenie giggled. She cradled his wrist in her hand, stroking the sensitive skin with her thumb. He could smell her freshly applied vanilla perfume. 

“And I wouldn’t say no to a repeat performance,” she said saucily, a little smirk on her lips. 

Graves stared at her helplessly, heart pounding. 

“When you’re recovered, of course!” she said with a giggle. 

“That may take several years,” he choked. Despite the allure of her pink lips and suggestive smile, he felt utterly wrung dry. 

“Don’t worry about it, honey,” she said with a wink. “I can wait.”


End file.
